


Playing Pretend

by TCRegan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, M/M, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 15:10:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2816672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian searches for a bit of happiness during one of many of his father's matchmaking parties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing Pretend

Strong, needy hands pulled at his shirt. Dorian would have rebuffed him – it was the finest silk, after all – but he didn't care at the moment. Hot mouth on his, feeling the man's hair between his fingers as he kissed hurriedly, desperately, thoughts of the party going on the floor below them fading from his mind. Being paraded around like a peacock _was_ fun, but not when it was for the benefit of his father and mother. Not when it was to be introduced to all the noblest, richest, most powerful women that Tevinter had to offer. Dorian wasn't sure even if he _had_ been inclined toward women that he'd want to participate in what was ostensibly an auction for his hand. Dozens of women trying to outbid each other, trying to be the next matriarch of the Pavus house.

He let out a grunt as the man shoved him back against the wall. Just a guest room. He was, after all, a guest. Whatever his name was. Amil? Amar? His dark Rivaini skin looked perfectly nice next to his own lighter, caramel color. Could do with a better tailor though, and something needed to be done about his hair. But he was handsome, catching Dorian's eye, subtly suggesting that he would like a tour of the house. Dorian had no desire to argue, no desire to stay for the next line of introductions for so-and-so's daughter or niece, no desire to kiss the backs of even more hands.

His father knew he was uninterested in marriage, thought him a playboy. Drinking and gambling the only things on his mind. And they were, outside his research with Alexius. Well, that and the man currently working to make a love bite on his neck.

"No marks," Dorian hissed, though what he wanted to tell him was, _Yes, bite harder._

"No worries," he whispered against Dorian's ear, causing him to shiver. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Of course not. Marking meant possession. This game, this dance, wasn't about possession. It was a quick dalliance, a spot of passion in the middle of a dull affair, a dangerous game to play. Dorian played often in his youth, quickly understanding what he wanted and didn't want. A kiss from some dowager's niece behind the potted plant in the Circle's foyer and he knew that girls weren't for him. The other boys laughed and talked and made crude jokes about their girlfriends, while Dorian honed his eye for others like himself.

The ties on his pants came undone, and he would have chastised Amar or Emilie – was it Emilie? A Rivaini with an Orlesian name, it made him laugh. But there was no time to play coy, to flirt. Just the burning need for hands; a mouth. He pushed on the man's shoulders, pleased and preening when he went. Dorian watched, breathing heavily, anticipating the heat, and was not disappointed. A string of curses tumbled from his tongue, darting out to lick his lips as Amir licked up his length. Dorian remembered the first time he'd done this, hesitant, then with renewed enthusiasm. He knew he should be the demanding one, the one who forced the other to his knees, like now. But there was something exceedingly dirty, amazingly _wicked_ about doing things he shouldn't. And that included sucking another man's cock. He loved it, loved the act. And in the one instance that it happened, loved the feel of his lover finishing on his face.

Not that he would admit that out loud. Ever. Son of a powerful magister, such things must stay hidden. He knew the rumors, the talk that his father tried desperately to curtail. He even felt bad once for putting him through it. But then his parents would fight – invariably about him – and he gave up on any hope of compassion either from them or for them. They wanted him to be something he wasn't. He wanted them not to hate one another.

Dorian groaned, head dropping back against the wall with a slight thud. The fingers of one hand buried in the other man's thick hair while his cock was buried deep in the man's throat. He guided him, though this clearly wasn't the mouth of an inexperienced virgin. Concerns fled his mind as he thrust his hips, wondering what it would be like to have this regularly. To fall into bed with someone at the end of the day, to talk about the idle thoughts that filled his mind instead of keeping them locked away. No deeper emotion, just surface concerns.

He came without warning, a very quiet cry of release. The man – and damn it, he wished he could remember his name – swallowed dutifully. Dorian didn't hesitate, pulling him back to his feet, kissing him deeply, ignoring the slightly condescending chuckle as he thrust his tongue into the man's mouth, searching for his own taste. He was nothing if not a narcissist, after all.

"Perhaps you could turn around?" the man breathed, one hand snaking back to grab his ass, squeezing roughly.

Dorian hesitated. Not that he hadn't done _that_ before, and many times in fact. But not here, not with this nameless man, Instead, he kissed him again, nipping his bottom lip before sinking to his knees. A compromise. Reciprocation was simply polite, after all. The man's belt was Antivan leather, well-oiled and soft, and Dorian thought he would add one like it to his collection, though perhaps with a more tasteful buckle than the golden monstrosity that adorned this one. Reaching in, he found his prize, already hard, the tip moist with precome.

He licked it.

From somewhere above, Emilie moaned, and Dorian kissed the soft flesh before opening his mouth, eyes closing to perform the intimate act he'd learned and perfected through years of dedicated training. They'd barely started when the door of the guest room opened.

"What is going on here?!"

Dorian was about to turn to tell his father, perhaps in as many sarcastic words that he could muster, just exactly _what_ was going on here, when Amir shoved him away, rather rudely. Dorian landed hard on his backside, hands splayed on the thick carpet. He winced, lifting a wrist to wipe his lips, glaring up. The wide eyes on the handsome face would have been comical had Dorian not been so angry at the interruption and subsequent rejection. He stood carefully, adjusting his own trousers even as his would-be lover fumbled with his own.

"Get out," Halward snarled. "Do not let me see you ever again."

The man ran.

Though short in stature, Halward cut an impressive figure when he was angry, licks of flame at his fingertips. Not that he'd ever truly _do_ anything. He never had to. The mere threat was always powerful enough. Dorian, however, was not cowed, and returned the glare in earnest.

"What were you thinking?" Halward hissed, shutting the door.

"Hm," Dorian said mockingly, crossing his arms. He brought fingertips to tap against his chin. "Let me think. Oh right! 'Maker, please suck my cock harder.' And, 'Sweet Andraste, you taste so good.' Also, 'Fuck, my father's come to ruin yet another aspect of my life.' That was the last one, in case you couldn't follow."

The silence hung heavily between them, Dorian feeling the waves of disappointment emanating from his father. He was used to it. It seemed, perhaps, that it would all come to a head right now. Years of careful dancing culminating in this. Would he shout? Curse his name? Force him to marry one of the stupid, silly, simpering noblewomen downstairs? Perhaps tonight, right now?

He would run. Dorian already knew he would. He was merely waiting to see how far he could bend his father before he would break, waiting for that last nerve to snap, and then he would be gone. No longer a disappointment, a burden. Perhaps then his parents would actually be happy.

But Halward didn't yell. He sighed, shoulders slumping as he turned away, hand on the door. "We'll talk tonight. Come to my study."

"Fine," Dorian spat, angrier now than he thought he would've been entering a screaming match with the man he once admired so much.

The door shut behind Halward with a soft, unsatisfying _click._ Dorian longed to throw something against it, perhaps one of the antique vases that decorated every room and hall of the estate. He didn't. Instead he moved to the mirror, taking a handkerchief to dab at his mouth, a bit of powder to cover the bite mark on his neck – and damn it, he nearly left it out of spite. He stared at himself for a moment, studying his features, his high cheekbones, dark eyes, the moustache Felix enjoyed poking fun at.

He had everything. Looks, class, manners, power, money.

Was it wrong to search for a bit of happiness?

Certainly his father thought so.

With a disgusted sneer, he shoved away from the vanity and left the room, back to the party, mundane and pointless.

Depending on what his father wanted with him tonight, he knew it was all coming to an end. Social suicide was better than whatever his father had in store for him. He would rather be a disappointment, a pariah, than settle for misery. And it was best that Halward knew that sooner than later.


End file.
